3 short stories by Gregory Fox

The Scene

I'm losing track of what's real and what's not.  I'm waiting for the scene to change.

Have we done this all before, said these words and cried these tears?  Are we having the same fight again, or was it all just a rehearsal for this performance?  We're shouting now, but the next part is where we apologize, kiss, make up.  I already know the lines.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too."

"You're the only good thing in my life." 

"That's a lot of pressure for one person."

"Please don't leave me."

"You know I don't want to."

"You'll stay?"

"Can I trust you?"

"Trust this."

That's when you kiss me.  The cheerful music swells, cares are forgotten, and love is victorious. 

But the words don't feel like mine anymore.  I don't know if this is love or a performance or a parody.  I don't know if it's really a happy ending.  I'll say the words anyway—the show must go on—but I'm no longer sure I believe my own performance.  What's my motivation?  Is this really what my character would do?  What should I do with my hands?

I hate the stage.  I hate our fights.  I hate putting on a show—even if you're the only audience I've ever had.  I just don't think I can keep living on your applause. 

"Please don't leave me."

But I want to.  I want something that's real, even if it's not happiness.  I want to leap through the open window into the depths of a perfect blue. 

You look at me expectantly, repeat your words again with a different inflection: "Please.  Don't leave me." 

Can I still love you?  Have I ever loved you?  If I hurl myself into that sky, will I reach the clouds or fall into a painted drape. 

A Pause

I saw him jump as I stepped from the shadows; still I threw myself into his arms.

“Marie?”

“Lucien,” I sobbed into his chest, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

He ushered me inside, guided me to a seat, poured me a glass of wine. I couldn’t drink it. When he sat down beside me, I stood and began pacing. Suddenly it all came pouring out. “I didn’t go to work today. I couldn’t. I went to see my parents.  They were already packing.  We saw the tanks go by their window. It’s like a nightmare.”

Lucien looked out his own window. “At least the city isn’t trying to resist. There hasn’t been any fighting.”

I shook my head. “Those monsters are in our city, Lucien! When I left my parents, I saw them at the tower, putting up that hideous flag.”

“Marie.”

He spoke my name in such a gentle, conciliatory tone, but I barely heard it. “A swastika,” I spat, “on the Eiffel Tower. I was so scared, Lucien—too scared to go home. I came straight here.”

“How long were you waiting for me?” he asked.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I told him, “I’m leaving tomorrow with my family. I thought—I was hoping you would come too—with me.”

Lucien’s brow furrowed. “Marie, I...”

A pause.

A cloud of uncertainty, confusion, fear.

Within that pause, the evil he was willing to tolerate choked away our love.

“I understand,” I whispered, wishing that I could. “I should go.”

The Romantic

"I think I could love you."

I winced reflexively. "That's not very romantic."

"I feel like the truth usually isn't," she said.

"Well, what's stopping you?"

"What?"

"From loving me."

"Oh. That." Her eyes drifted away.

Even though comprehension had dawned, she still didn't speak. "Well?" I finally said, trying to sound neither too forceful nor too anxious, just in case my emotions might somehow alter the answer I would receive.

"Well," she said. Her eyes narrowed; her lips pursed. Decided, she spoke. "It's the feeling, you know? The feeling itself. It's not like I have any doubt that I am drawn to you. I'm captivated by every part of you—your beauty, your intelligence, your confidence, your body, your vigour . . ." She hesitated.

And I knew what filled that pause. "But?"

"But the fact that all those things are becoming important to me also terrifies me. You're becoming a part of me, filling me up. And I'm afraid that if I let myself love you, and then you leave, I wouldn't be able to exist by myself anymore. But I'm also afraid that even if you stay, if I try to wrap myself around you and love you completely, there won't be room inside of me for all those feelings and one or both of us will have to break. I am afraid because, no matter what happens, loving you means losing myself. But every time I look in your eyes, I think it might be worth it."

"That was beautiful," I said. "And it was very romantic."

"Yeah," she said, finally lifting her eyes again to mine.

"Was it the truth?"